He grinned. "That gag was strictly for Miss Briggs," he said, "but down here I'm an unmarried man."
"Pooh!" said Dorothy. "I never saw an administrator down here yet who let himself worry about a wife and family somewhere else. The F.B.I. must be weakening."
Harcourt smiled. "Well, anyhow, Mrs. Jacklin, ma'm, the first round of drinks is on me—just to celebrate Mr. Tompkins' happy release."
I didn't care so much for that one. "Expense account, you spy-catcher?" I asked.
The Special Agent nodded. "Yep," he agreed. "My own expense. I was ordered to apologize handsome to you, sir, for the Bureau, and by gum we Harcourts do it right. What'll it be? Root beer or Moxie?"
The next morning, early if not bright, found me fumbling my way around the corridors of the State-War-Navy building in search of the proper official to handle secret intelligence reports. I finally unearthed him in the form of six-feet of languid Bond Street tailored perfection—a red-headed diplomat lily by the name of Dennis Tyler, Chief of the Liaison Section. To him I addressed myself.
"Oh, yes, so you're Tompkins—of Z-2," he observed. "Yes, yes. Quite too tragic for you."
"Tell me, Mr. Tyler," I inquired, "did you ever hear of Axel Roscommon?"
Tyler leaned back in his chair and contemplated me soulfully. "Now don't tell me that poor old Axel is a Nazi agent, Mr. Timkins—"